


degausser

by gristle_bloom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Demisexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, First Time, M/M, Pre-Apocalypse, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), The Lonely Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), no cows unfortunately, tired boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27532963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gristle_bloom/pseuds/gristle_bloom
Summary: It dawns on Jon that this is the most he has seen of him in months. That Martin’s mother is dead, that he himself almost died. That in reaction Martin dug himself into a hole so deep he almost stayed there.Let him look outside the window. Let him stay as far away from the Magnus Institute as it needs be. Jon wants him to have anything he wants.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 21
Kudos: 187





	degausser

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to demisexual town. Does it make just about zero sense? Yes. Is it v real? Also yes.
> 
> (English is not my first language, point out any mistakes!)

Jon is alone, and on the beach, and he cannot see him. He cannot see him.

Martin is here, Peter Lukas told him. He told him Martin doesn’t want to see him, he needs to keep away and let him be, Martin knows what he’s doing, he knows better.

The sand is cold, abrasive inside Jon’s shoes. He pushes on and the fog makes his eyes watery. He cannot see him. Maybe Martin isn’t here.

He feels lost; no, abandoned. He calls, but he gets nothing, other than the echo of his own frightened voice and quiet waves not too far. He said he’d trust Martin, but he’s just too scared.

There is something in the ashy landscape, Jon sprints towards it. It’s him! It’s Martin and Jon needs to save him, he needs to bring him back.

“I think I’ll stay,” Martin won’t look at him, “I belong here.”

“No, Martin,” Jon tries to grab him but he can’t touch him, it’s like Martin isn’t even there, “I need to know why. I need you to come back. I need to be with you.”

“No, you don’t.” Martin is chuckling weakly. “You don’t even like me. I can’t tell you now, but Peter really needs me. I think this is good, it doesn’t hurt here. I can’t see you now, I need to be alone. I really love you, you know?”

“Martin, look at me!” Jon is begging, but he’s powerless. The fog is just too thick and he can’t see. Martin is huddled in the sand, doesn’t look at him as he fades.

Jon wakes up at his desk. He doesn’t know how he got there, nor if his unconsciousness was sleep or head trauma. Sounds of commotion outside his office, but not violence. Basira and Martin’s agitated voices coming closer.

They see he’s awake and tell him the plan. They need to be quick. “Do you understand?” Martin squeezes his arm gently.

Jon understands. He feels exhausted, and positively shaken by his dream. It keeps mixing with the reality of what happened, and so Jon needs to constantly look at Martin, to make sure he’s really there. They pack up bags with few, necessary, belongings; they have to scout for them through piles of rubble, around the devastated and bloodied rooms of the Archive.

They leave quietly through a back exit before the police can get to the Institute. The station is dark and liminal as they sit there, waiting for the last hours of the night to crawl away. There will be a train to Northern Scotland in the early morning. Martin is pale, he replies to him kind as always, though his eyes only meet Jon’s but briefly.

* * *

There had been people on the train, not many, but just enough to convince Jon that the journey was real and not a nightmare. Just enough to force them to act normal. Jon had questions – Where was Elias? What was Basira going to tell the police? Where was Daisy? _Where was Daisy?_ – but he’d known he couldn’t ask yet. And how could Martin know, anyway? Martin had sat next to the window and Jon, not instinctively, but deliberately, next to him. He’d placed his phone on the cheap plastic of the table. It was dead, but no one’d be calling anyway.

They’d watched the sun raise pink and blue on the horizon, before dull grey clouds had veiled it. It wasn’t raining yet. Jon had wanted tea, and for the lights in the train to be switched off. They had got orange juice instead, butter biscuits, a bag of crisps. The ride was long, Martin had fallen asleep after a while, earplugs playing music that, judging by the names on the screen, Jon didn’t know about. Jon couldn’t sleep so he’d done what he did best. He’d watched the countryside ride fast and empty outside the window; the minimal, soothing, oscillation of the train; he’d watched the fine tips of Martin’s fingers, which he had noticed before, and the way his hair curled around the shell of his ear, the soft skin at the corner of his jaw, which he hadn’t. He and his jacket were big in his seat and Jon had found, by then with no surprise, but also with a little surprise, that he wanted to be close to him.

By the time they had got off the train Martin was closer to his usual self and, a couple of boxes of Domino’s pizza in Jon’s hands, they had made their way to Daisy’s safehouse a little lighter. Basira’s instructions were spot on, which Jon was not surprised about. Although, as they followed her minute clues to the lonely cabin, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been there herself, and, if so, under which circumstances. 

They’d laughed a bit at the state of their own circumstances and at gently inappropriate jokes that Jon didn’t know Martin could make. They’d eaten cold pizza on a dusty table and then stepped into a dark bedroom, too exhausted to get concerned about propriety of sleeping arrangements, or self-conscious about really anything at all. Jon had laid his head on the pillow and fallen into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Jon wakes up to the sound of rain falling lightly on the trees. The shutters are open, but the day is so gloomy the room stays dark. The bed is empty next to Jon. The covers have been pulled up to convey a semblance of tidiness, but it’s clear someone slept there. Martin slept there. Jon knows this, but he appreciates the tangible trace. He puts his shoes back on and brushes what’s left of sleep off his face.

Martin is downstairs, a French press in his hands that he doesn’t look too happy about.

“Morning,” says Jon and Martin looks at him and melts into a shy smile that does something to Jon’s heart.

“Morning. There is coffee if you want it. No tea, I’m afraid. Or anything else, really.”

“I’ll take the coffee,” Jon says, because it’s better than the alternative. “Did you hear from Basira?”

Martin shakes his head, “My phone is charging, but I don’t have much hope for signal up here.”

Jon nods once and tries to focus on the room. There are many things he wants to know right now and he doesn’t want to just… _know_ them. He takes a seat, sips his disgraceful coffee. Feels Martin’s gaze rest on him, then move to the window. The window is open, shutters and all, nip in the air outside, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It dawns on Jon that this is the most he has seen of him in _months_. That Martin’s mother is dead, that he himself almost died, that in reaction Martin dug himself into a hole so deep he almost stayed there.

Let him look outside the window. Let him stay as far away from the Magnus Institute as it needs be. Jon wants him to have anything he wants. “You look good,” he tells him, “are you… alright?”

Martin’s eyes move back to his and he seems suddenly careful, hesitant. “Yes. For the most part. Are you?”

Jon just nods. He raises an eyebrow at Martin. He’s trying really hard not to ask.

The blue in Martin’s eyes is crystal clear. “Jon, I need to… thank you. I knew what I was doing – well, sort of. I knew why I was doing it. But I was really lost there. _Really_ lost. And you brought me back.” He’s looking at his hands. “And what Peter said, it’s not true. I’m not better off without you. I wasn’t myself.”

Jon looks at him. “Peter had a lot to say.”

Martin raises his eyes slowly. “Did you really – kill him?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Had you done that before?”

“No.”

Martin sighs. “Are you an avatar of The Watcher?”

Jon can’t help himself, “Are you an avatar of The Lonely?” The question is too direct and too burning not to contain some compulsion. Jon briefly considers stabbing himself in the eye with the teaspoon.

“I don’t think so,” Martin seems slightly confused, “but he really wanted me to.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Jon says quietly. “I know I can die,” he adds matter-of-factly, “in case you have already tired of my company.”

It works. Martin is chuckling and calling him something only mildly offensive. Jon has other, arguably more important questions, but if Martin can’t tell him himself, he won’t ask.

“I really missed you,” he simply says and, leaving a once again shy Martin at the table, goes in search of the bathroom.

The day is short, as the weather is gloomy, and they got up late in the first place. They clean up the place to make it slightly less ghastly; they don’t unpack. Sometime in the early afternoon their stomachs are so loud they can’t ignore them anymore. Martin insists on going to the village on his own, and it’s a kindness, Jon knows. But if it wasn’t for the sneaky suspicion that maybe Martin needs some time on his own, he wouldn’t let him. The lonely cabin is a kind of creepy Jon can probably take. Martin going and potentially not coming back isn’t. There is a lot of supernatural out to get them and, if Basira played her cards really badly, perhaps a lot of non-supernatural too.

Martin pretends to laugh at his concerns and, cuter than he has any right to be, steps out into the cold, locks escaping the hood of his jacket and curling up in the humidity. Jon resists the temptation to look at his figure from the window and goes to take a shower instead.

He comes out of it loose and mollified. There isn’t a single thing to do in the cabin, so he drapes himself on what passes for a loveseat sofa and imagines a fireplace in the place of the old gas heater. His mind wanders about different strands of thoughts, recoils from the ones it doesn’t like – like that what he did to Peter Lukas is devastating, but he’s not sorry – and toys with the soothing ones, like the prospect of an entire evening with Martin, the memory of finding the tapes he had recorded.

Originally, Jon hadn’t planned on listening to Martin’s recordings of statements. He’d had a taste of his poetry early on and decided he didn’t need to learn more about his creative production. But that was nothing short of self-delusion. The idea of anything existing in his archive outside of his scrutiny had quickly seemed unacceptable. So, he’d listened to a random statement or two, to check that they had been done properly. Then he’d listened – out of empathy and odd interest – to Martin sigh nervously at the end of especially disturbing recounts; he’d listened to him trying to shake them off enough to conjure up a steady voice for follow ups; he’d listened to his tired voice knowing intimately how he felt. Then he’d listened because Martin had said something about him and he wanted to know if he’d said more. Then he’d listened because he missed him. Because he was back from the worst night of his life, which – he had discovered – had lasted six months, and no one was happy to see him alive. Because Martin was never around anymore and, if he happened to be, he was cold and impatient. Just like Jon had been, in the beginning. So, Jon would put on Martin’s statement from before the Unknowing again, and listen to him struggle for words, and hope that he, somehow, wasn’t too late.

By the time Martin comes back, Jon has been thinking about him for so long he almost feels like they had the conversation that they should have. Martin is quite wet, as soon as Jon relieves him of the bags, he takes off his shoes and jacket.

“I’ve got some proper ingredients,” Martin says, “but I wouldn’t mind getting started on the crackers and cheese in the meantime.” Jon agrees wholeheartedly. They snack over chats about the village and the weather until there are only broken crackers and crumbles left. The blue cheese stays untouched, and Jon realizes he looks like the kind of person who would enjoy blue cheese.

The prospect of actually making dinner together feels strangely too domestic, so Jon sends Martin to get his wet clothes off and take a shower. He busies himself with opening and closing random draws and cabinets, and waits until Martin has closed the door after himself to actually examine the shopping. There are bits of everything, and if Martin was too cowardly to make a definite choice, Jon surely isn’t going to. He minutely washes and peals vegetables, then dumps them in a pot and calls it soup. Martin, glasses off and still flushed from the shower, looks delighted.

They eat a whole loaf of bread with the soup, which Jon considers healthy. They speculate about what’s waiting for them in the next few days and Jon is surprised to find Martin has thoroughly considered several scenarios. Martin likes strategizing; who would have known. Or maybe it is speculating that Martin likes, and in that case, what does he think is going to happen now, the two of them in a cabin with one bedroom for an indefinite amount of time? What does he expect Jon to be like outside of the Archive?

A sobering line of thought for Jon, because he knows he isn’t much. He knows he’s weird, in a pedantic way. He looks old, no – he _looked_ old; now he looks properly dead. He doesn’t have much experience. He eats people’s trauma for breakfast, and then replays it in his sleep.

Martin has turned quiet watching his expression get grimmer. A new record for Jon, killing the joy in Martin without even talking. He rubs a hand over his eyes, tired of himself.

“We should probably get some sleep, before it gets really late,” Jon says to put an end to his misery.

“You go ahead,” Martin says getting up, “I’ll do the dishes.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Jon says quickly. “We can split them in the morning.”

“I can do it,” Martin repeats in a calm, but surprisingly firm voice. It says he won’t accept replies.

Jon admits defeat and, without another word, he steps upstairs. He changes and gets into bed, same side as the night before. Blankets up to his chest, arms out. He leaves the light on and listens to the water run downstairs.

Martin’s arrival is given away by the lights switching off at the other end on the stairs. Jon looks at him silently from the bed as he enters the room only addressing Jon a quick, nervous glance. Martin moves to the light switch slowly, so Jon knows what he’s going to do, and kills the light without asking.

He sits on the edge of the bed and changes in the dark in forcedly steady movements. The change from light to darkness was too abrupt for Jon’s eyes to be able to discern anything, but he can hear the fabric rustle and Martin’s quick breaths. He wants to tell him he didn’t have to do this; in fact, they don’t have to sleep in the same bed at all. Maybe Jon had thought about this, looked at the possibility of this closeness with nervous and thrilled anticipation. But if Martin is stressing about it, there is a perfectly uncomfortable sofa Jon is happy to take. Of course Martin would be uncomfortable about this, this is not normal. It is not normal to sleep in the same bed as your colleague, with whom you’ve barely spoken in months. It is not normal, and Jon shouldn’t want it.

Unaware of Jon’s spiralling, Martin settles into bed in just the same position as him. They lay still, the distance between them very proper.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came back,” Martin says quietly, after a while.

Jon turns to him like he could see him. “Oh, it’s – it’s alright.”

“It’s not really.” Martin hasn’t moved. “I did come to see you, at the hospital.”

“You did?” Jon doesn’t remember anything before the visit of Oliver Banks. Anything real, anyway.

Martin nods slowly, Jon can barely tell in the dark.

“I know what happened in the Unknowing,” Martin says in a whisper. “Basira told me. A building fell on you, Jon. The others died. Tim died. And you were at the hospital, and I was so… _relieved._ ” Martin says it with true repugnance and Jon feels his blood freeze over.

“I came to see you thinking that you were going to be okay. And then the days passed, and the weeks passed, and months, and you were just – gone.” A shacky breath leaves Martin’s lips. “It was awful.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, meaning it. “I’m so sorry for-”

“Don’t say it,” Martin interrupts him. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. That’s why they picked us, Elias and Peter. We have nothing. That’s what I was thinking in the Lonely.”

He’s not wrong, Jon has to admit. Unwittingly, by putting himself through the Lonely, Martin inflicted it upon Jon too. And not just that night, but over the long, solitary months. The lonely and the watcher really weren’t too far apart, after all.

“You’re no longer in the Lonely,” Jon says. _And you have me_ , he merely thinks.

“No,” Martin agrees in a small voice.

They remain in silence for a beat. Jon is so tense he doesn’t dare move.

“But it doesn’t change anything,” Martin adds eventually, “we did what we had to do.”

He waits for one more moment and, when nothing happens, he turns on his side. Curls up on himself, and away from Jon.

Whatever this means, Jon needs to know for sure. He can’t let him disappear again, fade away from him until there’s nothing left. Did he really love him? Could he still love him?

The need to know is burning inside him, but he cannot ask. Jon knows he cannot ask.

So, he will have to speak.

He turns towards Martin slightly, not daring to move closer. “Martin, I love you.” He says, “You know I love you, right?”

Martin’s head turns, “Jon – what?”

He sounds vaguely alarmed. It’s too dark, Jon can’t see his face. _Please, don’t let this be a mistake_.

“I heard what you said, in the Lonely.”

Martin draws in a breath.

“And I thought I was losing you and I would have done anything – _anything_ , to bring you back.”

Martin turns to him. “Jon, you don’t know what you’re saying.” He’s closer, but not enough.

“I read your poetry,” Jon continues, because what’s he going to do with dignity, if he can’t have Martin. “I listened to your statement, the one you gave before the Unknowing. A lot. There are a million of statements ending with me blabbing about you, forever enshrined in the Archive.

“I know maybe you don’t want it,” Jon says suddenly, because Martin is still not talking, “I know that was before – and that what I do, what I _am_ … I really wouldn’t blame you if-”

“Jon,” Martin covers his face with his hands. “Jon, I love you. Of course I love you. The walls at the Archive know that. Even Elias knows that!”

Jon is quite certain his heart is exploding. His lips want to pull into a smile, that he represses. “Elias, to be fair, knows everything…”

“Oh, shut up!”

Jon takes it for a moment. Then, in the fakest pondering tone he can get himself to muster, “I wonder if I could be compelled to do that.”

He looks at Martin who is now very close, because Jon has moved towards him helplessly. Martin seems stunned into silence and uncapable to process what he’s just been told. So, heart hammering in his chest, Jon chooses to just go for it one more time. He leans in and kisses him gently.

Martin sighs into it. He puts one arm around Jon to gather him closer.

And Jon is engulfed in his warmth, in the vaguely pepperminty smell of his bodywash, in his embrace.

Jon has thought about this; not since long, but frequently. He couldn’t figure out what it could be like, how it could happen. Right when he was ready to let Martin see him, he’d turned away. Except, Martin had seen him already, a long time before. He just didn’t know it.

Jon kisses him with intent, to let him know how much he wants it. How much he loves him. Martin absorbs it, sweet, grounding, bare. If this were anyone else, Jon wouldn’t care for it. He wouldn’t want the touch, he would not be in their bed. His sense of danger would ring like a bell at the first hints of physical proximity, and he would just slip away from it as fast as possible, to avoid unpleasantness. But this is different. This is rare to Jon, and heady that it’s really happening with Martin. Martin places a kiss on his neck, and Jon doesn’t want to pull away.

Martin is keen, but he’s being cautious. His hands are gentle on Jon, his kisses delicate and slow, like butterflies ready to fly away at the first sign of Jon’s displeasure. Jon doesn’t know why he’s holding back – he almost _does_ , but stops before it’s too late. What Jon does know is that there is no reason for Martin to. He threads his fingers through his hair at his nape, uses the motion to bring Martin’s mouth back up to his. Kisses him deeply. Congratulates himself when he hears Martin’s breath speed up.

Jon lays down on his back and Martin follows him in unison, part of his weight pressing down on him, which is exactly what Jon wants. He wants to feel him, so close it’s impossible to tell them apart. Martin rolls his hips slightly and Jon’s vision gets blurry for a moment. His gasp betrays him and Martin, quick to pick up, slips a hand between his legs. He palms him through his pants and it’s torture, but in the perfect amount.

“Get these off,” Jon whispers, hooking his thumbs into the elastic band of Martin’s pants.

Martin does so quietly, Jon quickly imitates him. He stops him before Martin can decide what to do with his shirt. Jon doesn’t care. He has sense of Martin’s vague tension and he doesn’t need everything to happen at once. This is enough. More than enough, this is incredible.

Jon kisses him again, bolder than he has any right to be, perhaps bolder than he actually feels. And maybe Martin senses it, because he takes control again. He pushes Jon down slowly, kiss unbroken, and realigns with him perfectly. His hands brush under Jon’s shirt, and lower on his thighs, uncaring of marks and scars that Jon is actually nervous about. He takes him in his hand, flick of his wrist that betrays experience Jon knows he cannot claim for himself.

Martin builds up to a steady rhythm and Jon feels himself start to lose control of his body. Which is as exciting as it is terrifying. He hasn’t done this in a long time and having Martin like this, after all the fear, the loneliness and the sorrow, is maybe more than he’s emotionally prepared for.

Martin seems more solid than him at this juncture. He holds him, kisses him deeply, draws pants out of him relentlessly. When a kiss brushes the scar on his throat, Jon has to shut his eyes to keep from weeping. He knows he’s not going to last. He can feel Martin’s hips press against him slightly, his quick breaths match his own, his own need poured out onto Jon. Jon thinks he will have this again; that nothing, no matter how foreign or powerful, will touch Martin again; that perhaps Martin is someone he’ll be able to keep. And it is too much. He feels it coming, impelled by Martin’s demanding hand, until it rips out of him. His muscles spasm, the pleasure echoes in his limbs, blinding.

Martin kisses him slowly back to his mind. Jon wishes he could stay there, in that pleasantly exhausted darkness, where he doesn’t have to see anything, doesn’t have to exist beyond Martin.

Martin noses at his jaw, and in the crook of his neck. It is tender but sensual, their bodies still hot and intertwined. Jon remembers Martin hasn’t come yet, and he’s going to remedy that. He tilts his chin up, mouths at his jaw slowly, hardly believing he gets to do that. Martin allows a small sound of pleasure to escape his lips, and Jon makes a mental note this is how Martin reacts to being wanted. He flips them over slightly, creates space where he wants it. Touches his forehead to Martin’s as he caresses one hand down his side, his hip, the back of his thigh. Martin shivers, closes the space between their mouths messily. He has been ready for a while. Jon closes his fingers around him and Martin instinctively thrusts up. This is a revelation to Jon, that he can grip him firmly, tease him with his thumb, and watch him fuck into his hand like his life depends on it. The sinuous movement, the strength in it, make Jon’s mind race to everything else they are yet to try, and his stomach clenches in pleasure.

Martin is getting more erratic; Jon strokes a finger at the corner of his jaw and wishes he could see what he looks like. In the dark, he only has his breaths in his ear, the squeak of the bed, the tension in his body, to paint the picture of him. He traces his lips with the tip of his tongue, demanding they part. Martin does just as he’s bidden, and it feels like a miracle. His thrusts are frantic. Jon meets them with his hand, keeps his tongue in Martin’s mouth. A short sound escapes Martin as he comes, hips pushing off the bed, riding it out, fingers digging desperately into Jon’s back.

Martin doesn’t let go of him as his breaths slowly calm down. His eyes are closed, there is sweat on his forehead. Jon feels him against himself, breaths in his smell. He places one more kiss on his mouth and lays his head down on Martin’s shoulder.

“God,” Martin says, and Jon can’t help but agree.

Jon wipes himself – who got the worst of it – with whichever unlucky piece of garment is closest. Can’t resist the curiosity and, bringing a finger to his mouth, cleans it with the tip of his tongue experimentally. Martin, next to him, probably realizes, because his breath catches.

Martin drags him back down, hides his face in his neck abashed. Jon is strangely happy like that. He feels sleep claim him and closes his eyes, not planning to move at all.

There’s a chill in the air to wake Jon up. There is light in the room, a sign that the weather is slightly better, but the wind outside must sneak in easy into the cabin. The light in the room is also a sign that Martin got up to open the shutters.

He’s back in bed, farther from Jon that he has any need to be, looking at the sky outside the window. Jon looks at him, how his lashes curve up, the pale shade of his skin in the cold morning light; he looks younger like that. Beautiful.

Jon rolls over and brings a hand to his eyes to gain one extra second before meeting Martin’s gaze. It’s not that he’s scared, it’s not. It’s that waking up next to Martin like this is a lot. He’s trying to keep his heart from bursting.

Sure enough Martin is looking at him, when he emerges from the darkness. He looks pensive, hard to say at a glance what’s running through his mind. Jon tilts his head slightly at him, stretches one arm out to take his hand. Martin looks at it happen, and decides he can move closer.

Closer is better, it feels more natural. It feels more natural to just slot next to each other, to wrap his arms around him.

“Alright?” Jon asks softly.

Martin nods.

“I didn’t know,” he says after a moment, “if this was going to happen.”

“I didn’t either,” Jon says, surprising himself with the truth.

“I’m glad it did,” he adds, feeling a bit mawkish, but Martin squeezes him harder so it must be alright.

“I didn’t know you liked…” Martins says slowly.

“Oh.” Jon chooses his words. “I just sort of – like who I like.”

“Yeah, you don’t like a lot of people.” Glimpse of the usual Martin peeking through.

“I don’t do this a lot…”

Martin laughs, “Yeah, me neither.”

Jon wonders if he should just let it go. What’s the point of bringing this up now? But they’re talking about it, and if he doesn’t say it now, he will have to say it later.

“I mean, I don’t actually want to… bed a lot of people.”

It’s Martin’s turn to tilt his head slightly.

“I sort of – don’t really want to go to bed with anybody, ever.”

“Oh.” Martin’s eyes seem to get cloudy, he’s suddenly very serious. “Oh.” He’s pulling away, making sure no part of him is touching Jon. Where is he going, for heaven’s…

“I said I was glad!” Jon almost wants to laugh, so much for the Archivist’s incredible communication skills. “Martin, I wanted it. I really, really wanted it.” He grabs his hands and Martin stills. “I was just saying, I hardly ever want it with anyone.”

Martin looks straight into his eyes. Like he could ever be able to see if he’s telling the truth.

“You’re sure,” he says. “You never want it, but you wanted it this time?”

Jon is regretting not all, but several of his life choices. “Yes. I am not a very” he clears his throat, “ _sexual_ person. But there are exceptions to that. The way I feel about you makes me… want you.”

Martin is still staring at him, mouth closed, not looking like he’s going to talk anytime soon.

“I will likely… want it again.” Jon points out, not very subtly, because he wants Martin to know – and because he does want him again, already.

Martin’s cheeks blush in a way that is just delicious; it almost makes the conversation worth it.

“Okay,” Martin manages to say. “I need to know. That this is something you want. Because it means a lot to me.”

This is not about sex anymore. Jon marvels sometimes, at how cutting the truth coming from Martin’s voice can be. At how he can be so honest about how he feels, when it clearly hurts so much.

“You know it,” Jon says, honest. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“Going to be a long time, then.” Martin mutters, but his eyes are clearing.

Jon feels the corners of his mouth curl up. He's almost scared this might not be real. Maybe something finally got him. Maybe this is a poisonous illusion and he's rotting in the tunnels under the institute, dead. But, no. It didn't feel this good to be dead. Then, it must be that he saved Martin. That they did manage to run away, just like Jon asked him. That Martin doesn't hate him, and, in fact, he might love him. That they have the upper hand, for once.

They have to shower. They have to eat. They have to call Basira. Not much other than that.

Jon might suggest a walk, Martin’s been looking at the sky since they arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> Melanie and Basira kept their mouths shut, if you ask me.


End file.
